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When I ca rooot all about htened and wiped her eyes with her hand "I’ain

I sat next to her Tentatively I stretched out ," she said "Dashay The bees Your father"

On her lap was an envelope addressed to her in his handwriting "What did he write?"

"Nothing" She wiped her eyes again "He writes nothing about hi and research and the colors of the Irish countryside" She rubbed her hand on her T-shirt "Today’s our wedding anniversary! He’s the "

I tried to think of words to console her "He doesn’t like to talk about his feelings," I said

"I know that," she said, "better than anyone"

"At least he writes to you" I’d had only two postcards froht have read with cursory interest--nothing like the thick envelopes of thin blue paper that caestured toward the envelopes on the side table "It ca with this one I was so upset about the bees that I forgot to open the mail until today"

I reached for the envelope with my name on it, surprised at how happy I felt But I didn’t open it I wanted to be alone for that

Mãe nodded Then she hts, because she said, "Oh no Your ankle? I should have taught you how to roll a kayak"

Alone in ue: the coast of County Kerry was stark, yet s of rock against deep green fields, and ruins of castles a coht

"History intrudes everywhere," he wrote Had I heard about the Skelligbeehives on a rocky island in the Atlantic, off the Kerry coast They’d abandoned thethe twelfth century, he said They left because of divisiveness after so up withThen he quoted some lines froreen laurel/Rooted in one dear perpetual place"

At the end, he wrote, "I h

Mãe said I had to spend at least a day resting ruht at the drugstore in town

These weren’t overn more and more queasy and depressed My father had called such events "ephe that they recurred cyclically He said that to pay attention to the current phases of the cycles would produce "delusions of control, and in the end, frustration"

I wondered if my father was correct True, I couldn’t do rimly pleased that I knew a little more about them

Until noar had been a historic term to me; historians made wars sound reasonable, understandable, even noble, with analyses of all sides of the conflicts I looked at the photos in the ht, History is just another kind of story

Mãe ca dinner for two on a tray (Dashay was "out," Mãe said, her tone telling me not to ask where)

When she’d set it down, she said, "You still look sad, Ariella"

"I’ve been reading about politics" I unfolded a napkin and spread it across my lap "Father never paid any attention to them"

"All the more reason why you should" She handed nore the world, we do so at our peril"

"I guess But I miss the old days" The sentence sprawled across the table, a pink-tinged sentimental mess

"So do I, at tis, so to say I ht had occurred to lad you’re here It an spooning creamed oysters onto a bed of sautéed spinach and toast points

"I ht, too, caht before I spoke

"Your bikewith the furniture from the old house" She handed me a plate, which I balanced on my lap

The oysters son--they hinted of faraway places I’d yet to visit

"Why don’t we go and get your bike?" she said "We’ll need furnishings, once the house is rebuilt Raphael said we should take e need froive away the rest"

Mãe said she’d book us a flight to Albany early in Septes, and drive back with our possessions I liked the idea of seeing ain, in the company of my ht--Raphael never had much of a sense of politics," Mãe said "Maybe because he had no sense of faroup He never knew his father His mother died when he was born, and he was raised by an aunt"